


Encore

by just_the_fics_maam



Category: The Deep Blue Sea (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:16:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_the_fics_maam/pseuds/just_the_fics_maam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For fans of The Deep Blue Sea. Freddie’s back from Rio just in time for the Springtime in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encore

**Author's Note:**

> Smut. One-Shot.
> 
> **Please excuse my self-indulgent use of run-on sentences. I wanted to write it in a galloping, breathless way. I… just couldn’t help myself. Please forgive.

He pushes in through the side door, right where the proscenium meets the creaking rows of wooden seats, the smell of greasepaint and talcum and sweat thick in the air. He smiles, pleased with himself, and takes off his hat, walking quickly to the back of the theatre and into the lobby. There, he is pleased to see, the director and half the cast already stand, champagne glasses in hand, chatting with the wealthy patrons who come early on Friday nights to rub elbows and be photographed in their diamonds, dusted off from jewel boxes, beaded dresses shaken out of mothballs, all the finery that has survived the bombings and the lean times afterward, all the French fashion that can be gotten in these days, when things are finally loosening up a bit. People will sometimes even smile in the shops and the streets and walking slowly arm in arm along the clipped greens of Hyde Park, returning to their lushness again in the spring.

Lovers, walking through the gardens and stealing kisses, sometimes stealing even more than that: these were Freddie’s first sights when he arrived back in London.

It has been three full years since he set out for the garish sunlight of Rio, three years since the rush of adrenaline had been once again new to him, flying, zipping low to the horizon and back again, the flowing colors of the earth and the sky blending together and he felt like he was real again, felt the reality of his flesh come back to him. Breathed for the first time.

And then when the heat and the jazz and the sweet, syrupy summer heat of Rio had sunk into his bones, then he began to miss her, and to hate himself for missing her, and he had pushed further, flying faster, dancing later, drinking harder, and drowning his nostalgia in the soft, inviting arms of the ladies in the backrooms of the dance halls, gripping them, thrusting into them without even knowing their names as the lazy bossa nova drifted over them, their deep red lips panting, their sweaty hands clutching at him. They always let him go without a fight and he would have taken it personally but for the fact that he was always ready for the next one, too: girls of every shape, every size, deep dark skin and coffee-colored skin and caramel-skin and alabaster, but he always imagined his Hester back in his arms again, dark and light at the same time, her skin the faintest blush of porcelain, her dark eyes, her smoky lashes; she still came to him in his fevered dreams as he slept in the hot, still rooms he had rented near the offices of the _Journo do Brasil_ and there he had started working on the weekends, churning out 250-word slices of what life had been like as a pilot in the war; his bad Portuguese re-translated by the old, matronly woman behind her desk, peering over her heavy-rimmed glasses, and she had asked him late one evening when the editors were all gone and she pulled out her silver flask, tipping straight gin into her mouth, was there someone special? And he had just shaken his head, and then he knew it was time to find his way back.

And six months later he had done it, his pockets full of cash and the fever of Rio still burning in his veins. The cold of the early London spring blasted him as he walked off the plane onto the tarmac and he set to work immediately, finding work at a London newspaper and finding old RAF in the bars in the evenings, up all night singing and laughing and always watching the door just in case she might come in, her bright red dress giving a flush to her pale cheeks. That was how he remembered her. Not the weeping, shadow of her, pleading with him on the last day, when he had turned away at the door of the flat, walked down the squeaking stairs to the street below, knowing that if he left, her anger would commit her back to life again, and tightly. He remembered her as she was those nights when they first met, when they would go dancing and sway, just slightly, to the music, in the middle of a crowded dance hall, feeling like the only two people in the room, feeling like that moment in time was the only real moment. Her soft, heart-beating warmth pressed against him, the tenderest thing he had ever had, the thing like love burning in his breast and the lust that pushed them home again, pressed them together on dingy sheets and squeaking-spring mattresses, their ecstasy grinding along like an old rusty machine, learning again what it was to be alive and to taste love, even just for the second when her dark shining eyes rolled up in her head and her eyelids fluttered shut and she called out in a whimper, as her pleasure came, soft and smooth, and his too. Hester, the warm home for his wandering soul.

And then he had seen her again, for the first time, just yesterday, ducking into the doorway of a theatre in a sudden downpour, right as the matinee was seating. He had bought a ticket out of boredom because the rain would not quit, and as the lights came up, suddenly there she was, and he couldn’t believe his eyes: clad in a skintight white silk dress and a beaded headdress, she declaimed the tragic story of an old Greek myth, standing bare in the bright footlights and looking out, her lips deep coral, the stretch of her petite bisque arms, dotted here and there with the freckles he remembered tracing with his tongue.

He was transfixed for the whole performance, drinking in every sound her voice made but hearing none of the words. He rushed backstage after the final curtain call, and throwing away all caution pushed into her dressing room, jerked his head to the door to dismiss the two girls there, chatting and unbuckling their shoes and she had turned around just as he slammed the door shut behind them, slid the metal lock across, and took her to him, bruising her with the grip of his hands, bending her over the makeup table, pushing the shiny dark curls from her face, tasting the thick waxy lipstick painted onto her soft, plump mouth, jerking up the heavy beaded skirt with one yank of his arm, fucking her wordlessly against the rack of coats and dresses, the strings of pearls and rows of rhinestones clacking with the rhythm of his hips as he drove harder into her, erasing the loneliness and the wandering of three years, her cries in a crescendo as he flew farther toward the swirling horizon and came upon the shore again, suddenly, panting, covered in cool sweat, in her arms, looking into her fathomless brown eyes, her breath like a kitten’s against his cheek, the flush of climax painting her cheeks even brighter than the thick blush already caked there. She reached out, and in an old remembered gesture dragged her tongue, long and slow, up his neck, smiled at the familiar taste of his sweat.

He had only stayed with her a moment, and then she was gone, in a whirl of hairpins and stockings, and he dashed out, too, into the evening swirl of the streets, but not before he had tucked a schedule of performances into his coat pocket.

Now, he has arrived early to see her, to speak with her before the next performance, his heart intemperate in its desire for her, his body thrumming already with the possibility of it, with the anticipation of the sight of her ankles, her smooth calves peeking out below the hem of a delicate dress, her wavy brown hair like a shining crown around her head, the incandescence of her perfect smile, her row of shiny teeth like pearls.

But she is not here. He looks around, counts among the attendees almost everyone he saw on stage, and then at the front doors of the theatre a man enters, at least six feet tall, with slicked-back wings of silver hair, a tight, clipped mustache and a great grey overcoat, a hat under his arm, a silk scarf trailing low around his neck. Freddie can sniff him out instantly, a married man on the prowl. He met them all the time in Rio, and they smiled at him condescendingly, pitying his singleness, as if he were somehow less of a man than they, who had Lindas and Marthas and Barbaras at home in yellow kitchens with potted ferns in the window on Long Island and in the Boston suburbs. An American man, Freddie can tell, by the height and careless swagger. And a small silver ring on his pinkie finger, a subtle nod to a lodge membership, or a fraternity, or simply an ode to his own wealth. The man looks nervously from side to side, scanning the crowd, no doubt, for anyone who knows him, who could carry the tale back home again.

And then his face brightens as he sees someone he does know, and Freddie’s stomach clenches: Hester. She appears, bright and gleaming in soft turquoise, a feathered hat pinned to the side of her head, a large opal ring on her middle finger. She rushes to the man, kisses him on both cheeks, and lingers just a moment too long, holding both his hands in her tiny palms, turning then to the director. “Senator Thompson,” he hears her say, and the director, a short, balding man, extends his arm and smiles as they shake hands.

Freddie watches the scene with a simmering kind of warmth turning quickly to a boiling rage, his jealousy, held off for three years in the high azure of Rio, flooding back to him, ten times what he felt when he saw her in the arms of the old, stupid judge. This man, this American, this _senator_ , taking his own fluttering, soft-feathered English bird to his own breast. Freddie’s fingers clutch his tumbler of whiskey, shaking until the ice rattles together, clinking, but Freddie doesn’t hear it; the only sound he hears is Hester’s soft, low, flattering laughter.

Still she doesn’t see him.

He rushes from the lobby, splashing cool water on his face in the washroom, and he sits in the last row for the evening performance, watching her again, but this time consumed in jealous, burning possession rather than the airy, breathless joy of discovery that he felt the day before. Hester, _his_ Hester, laughing, whispering, in the arms of another man; his jaw clenches, his legs ache for motion, but still he sits through both acts, balling his program up into a sweaty twist as he watches her, watches all the other men in the theatre watching her, each of them, it seems, licking their lips, salivating, waiting until she falls, soft and warm, into their bold arms.

He will not lose her again. He swears under his breath at the final curtain call and rushes down the balcony stairs and backstage even before the applause finishes, sees her rushing down the stairs, reaching behind to pull pins from her hair; he reaches out, grabs her arm like a vise; she turns to him, startled, and then looks up into his eyes.

“Freddie,” she says, and in her voice he hears all the unmet desire of a thousand nights alone; in her liquid eyes the promise of a sweet release, of the tender home he once had there.

“Freddie, say something. Let go,” she says, twisting in his grip.

“Is he keeping you?” Freddie asks, his voice dangerous and quiet.

“Is who keeping me? Freddie, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Do not… _lie_ to me _,_ ” he says, his jaw clenched, leaning in, his breath hot and close. “You know who, you little… you know I mean him, the Senator. Or did you think I didn’t see?”

“Freddie,” she says, looking around nervously. She looks up at him, fear and desire dueling, playing across her face. “Not here.”

“Where, then?” he asks, a wave of his damp hair falling down across his forehead. “Tell me where.”

She looks around in the dimness of the bustling backstage. “Wait here,” she says. She runs to the dressing room, returns with her coat and hat, and takes him by the arm out the side door of the theatre.

They walk together, silently, along the narrow streets until they reach a narrow, two-story stone house, a tidy garden on one side, a rickety wire fence marking the edge of the property. Freddie looks up at it. “Is this from him?” he asks.

“Freddie,” she says, chiding. “I… do well now. I work.”

“I can see that, Hester,” he says, pride in her almost making his anger give way, but she turns impetuously, her hair swirling in his face, and runs away from him up the steps, unlocks the door. A grey kitten races silently around their heels as they walk in.

Inside, she locks the door behind them and he walks toward her, taking her arm again and backing her up against the mantle in the sitting room. Around him, clocks tick and portraits stare; he bends down, kisses her forcefully, angrily.

A light moan shakes free from her throat and she puts a hand gently on his chest, looks up at him, her chest heaving. He looks down, sees a trickle of sweat running down from her neck between her breasts. It enrages him, like everything else here. He runs his finger under the edge of the beaded headband, pushing it until it falls to the floor. He runs his fingers through her hair, shaking it free from its pins. She sighs, throwing her head back, and he sees the blue veins running in the thin skin of her white neck.

He strides to the window, pulls down the double-shade and turns back to her in the half-light, on her face a kind of panic that fills him with a dark, jittering excitement. “My Hester,” he purrs into her ear, licking her soft earlobe, taking the diamond and pearl earring in his teeth. “Did he give you these?”

She doesn’t answer, only makes a desperate sort of sound, looking up at him.

“Ah,” he says, smiling a small, satisfied smile. “I see that he did.” He draws them out of her ears, drops them onto the mantelpiece. He leans down, unhooks the heavy beaded dress and lets it fall to the floor. He pushes the strap of her slip of her shoulder. “What does he call you?”

“Freddie, don’t,” she says, shaking her head, one tear in the corner of her eye.

“Tell me what he calls you,” he says darkly, his bottom jaw reaching out, grasping for the answer.

“Hettie,” she says lightly.

“Hettie.” He laughs. “The man has no imagination,” he says, shaking his head. “Well. Does the Senator fuck you like I do, _Hettie_?”

“Don’t call me that, Freddie,” she says, shaking her head, her knees already weakening. She backs up, leaning back on a corner bookshelf, nervously reaching back to touch a dusty bowl of fake oranges behind her.

“What should I call you, then? Slut? Whore? Kept woman?”

“No, no,” she says, shaking her head, tears falling. She looks up at him. “Call me what you used to call me.”

He looks down at her, a pang of unexpected tenderness striking at his heart like a stab, like a blow, like a shock of lightning. “My little bird,” he says breathlessly. He touches her soft hair and she leans against his chest. “My little sparrow. My linnet.”

She sighs contentedly.

“But what were these nicknames to you last night?” He laughs a mirthless laugh. “You went back to him last night, didn’t you? _Didn’t you_?” His voice rises, the veins standing out on his neck. “Answer my questions, Hester. After you saw me, after you _knew_ that I was back, you went back home to him. You let him touch you with his hands, you let him slide his tongue in your mouth, let him press you to the bed…”  Freddie is shaking now, his face red, his fingers clenching Hester’s arms.

She looks into his eyes, in her gaze a dare. “I did go to him,” she says, her voice low.

He lets go of her suddenly, takes a step back, his face turning white. “Don’t do this, Hester,” he says.

“I did. I did go to him. I stood in front of him and I let him take my clothes off, just as you are taking my clothes off now,” she says. “I felt his hands on my skin, Freddie.” She draws the silk slip off over her head, standing in pale pink bra and garter belt, soft stockings held up by straps. “Right here, Freddie,” she says, raising her eyebrows, trailing her fingers down her curving waist, the small roundness of her soft belly, trailing low between her legs. She presses with her fingers there for just a moment, her eyes softening as she watches him, her lips slightly parted. She sighs softly.

“No,” he says, grabbing her by the wrist. “You haven’t finished telling me,” he growls. “Tell me everything he did to you. Tell me everything that he claims as his.”

“These pearls are his,” she says, leaning in close to Freddie, the dusty scent of cigarettes in her hair.

He reaches both his hands up and in one motion, grips the string of pearls and snaps it, dropping it off her neck. The knotted pearls slide down her back, slithering, clattering against the hollow wood floor.

“And these lips,” she says, trailing her finger across her mouth. He takes it hungrily in his own, devouring the soft heat of her lips, pressing his tongue to push her mouth open, to force her to take him into her. She breaks away, chest heaving.

“And these shoes,” she says, kicking out her pretty ankles, strapped in black patent leather. He leans down, tears the shoes off her feet, throws them against the striped wallpaper by the davenport. He starts to push her, walking her backwards slowly, down the hall, his hand on her clavicle, feeling her fluttering heart beneath his hand.

“And these things,” she says, gesturing down. He is silent, stares straight ahead as he pushes her into the tiny room, lifts her into the great clawfoot tub. He turns on the water overhead, icy cold at first, and she cries out from the shock of it, her eyes widening, her nipples hardening as he tears the brassiere open at the front, pushes it back off her shoulders. The shower warms and flows in rivulets and streams down her dove-soft flesh. She writhes now with desire, reaching out to pull him to her but he holds an arm out to stop her, holds her gaze as he rips the garter belt, shreds the stockings, tearing the smooth silk off her legs with his hands, the ripping sound satisfying him. Hester stands before him then, naked and quivering, her heart pounding, her eyes heavy with desire; he pulls off his wet shirt, his ruined wool slacks, and grips her to him roughly.

“Who fucks you better than I do?” he hisses into her ear, pinning her hard against the tile wall.

“No one,” she says, weakly, drawing her leg up and around him. He pushes it back down, touches his lips to her breast, lightly, barely.

“Who owns your body, Hester? What belongs to the old Senator, Hester?”

“Mmm,” she says, her head thrown back, her hips jerking forward toward him.

“Does he make you sigh like this?” he asks, drawing one finger lightly up her spine. She shivers.

“No,” she says weakly.

“No, what?”

“No, Freddie,” she says.

“Does he make you wet like I do?”

“Mmm, no, Freddie,” she says, biting her lip as he pushes his fingers quickly over her, between her legs, rubbing and pressing roughly, feeling her swollen and warm beneath his hand.

“Does he make you scream his name, Hester?”

“No, Freddie.” She reaches out, grips the soapdish, her legs beginning to shake.

“What did you dream about when I was away, Hester? Tell me.”

“Oh, Freddie,” she moans.

“Tell me now, Hester,” he says, sliding a finger inside of her and drawing it back out again, slowly.

“I dreamed of you, Freddie,” she says. “I dreamed of you with me, oh! Oh, Freddie,” she says, whimpering as he speeds his hand inside of her.

“What did I do to you in your dreams, while you were in bed with your Senator?” he asks.

“You fucked me, Freddie,” she says, pushing her hips gently up and down now, against the motion of his hand.

“Did I fuck you like a nice gentleman?”

“N-No, Freddie.”

“No?” he asks, teasing her upper lip with his tongue.

“You always fucked me like an animal,” she says, her voice low and husky. She stands up straight and looks into his eyes.

A smile plays on the corners of his lips, a triumph igniting in his eyes. He pushes on her with his bare hips, slamming her into the wall, the hot water coursing down both of their bodies. He drives into her, all of his length slamming, deep, the force of it shocking the breath from her for a moment.

“It’s all mine,” he says, thrusting in sharply.

“Mmm,” she says, drawing her arms up around his neck, his hot kisses on her wet neck.

“ _Say it_ , Hester,” he growls. “Say it _now_.”

“All yours,” she says.

“Tell me what’s mine,” he says, gripping her ribs, her waist in his fingers as he plunges, deeper.

“All of my body,” she says, her head falling lightly backwards.

“Mmm, your hands,” he says. “Your mouth.”

“Mmm.”

“Mine now,” he whispers, his words nearly drowned out by the rushing water.

“Harder,” she whispers, her eyebrows drawn together in slow, painful pleasure.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Is this mine, too, then?” and he reaches his hand down, presses hard on her as he thrusts.

“Uhhhh, yes!” she calls out, her breath tight in her throat, gripping his muscled upper arms tightly, digging into his flesh with her tiny, smooth fingernails, calling out with a cry as the release overtakes her, washing over her like the warm water from the shower. He feels her pleasure throbbing around him and he feels his control slipping from his fingers as he drives harder, faster.

And he clenches his jaw then, digs his fingers into her hips, and lets go, pounding into her, his relief washing down with the water that is just now beginning to turn cold. He breathes, hard, his heart pounding in his chest, looks up at the ceiling, the haze of water vapor that rises around them, trailing like smoke off of their limbs, off the ends of their fingers.

He gathers her gently to him, feels her heart pounding on his own wet skin. “My little linnet,” he says, brushing her hair gently out of her eyes. “I love to feel you flutter in my hands.”

She leans against him, letting out a contented sigh, her flesh subsiding against his.

There, with sweet Hester pressed to him, his own sweet bird once again his, the swirl of all of Freddie’s questions and the heat and gripping pain of all the years that came before swirl down the silver drain and far away, like so much water.


End file.
